


A Dream and His Dreamer

by sassan



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: At least when he is with Prokopenko, Kavinsky is soft, M/M, Minor Joseph Kavinsky/Ronan Lynch, Minor Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish, canon-typical drugs, mention of drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 18:13:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10599453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassan/pseuds/sassan
Summary: Things were ending, Prokopenko could tell. His heart ached and longed for Joseph Kavinsky, even though he was lying right next to him when he woke up. Kavinsky had spent the night out, probably with Lynch. He smelled of the earth and the grass of the fairground.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you and shout out to Lou for proof-reading and editing this work! She put a lot of effort into it, even though she doesn't like Kavinsky. (Yes, tragic, I know.) You can find her here: http://hijackedbylou.tumblr.com

**A Dream and His Dreamer**

 

Prokopenko knew something about him was different, but he couldn't tell what. He was healthy, good-looking, smart, slightly self-destructive, and helplessly in love with Joseph Kavinsky. It wasn't his sexual preference that made him different, no, it was something else, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

Kavinsky was towering over him, moaning, sweating, taking Prokopenko roughly like he always did. Prokopenko didn't mind, enjoyed it even. With Joseph Kavinsky things were always rough and fast and extreme. Prokopenko buried his fingernails in Kavinsky’s back, leaving red crescent-shaped marks behind as he came with a choked moan. Kavinsky kept fucking him until he found relief himself. He pulled out of Prokopenko and fell onto bed next to him. For a while they just laid there, waiting for their breathing to slow down again. Kavinsky rolled onto his side, kissed Prokopenko’s forehead and whispered, “Mine.”

This side of him only Prokopenko was allowed to see. Prokopenko’s heart raced and he felt butterflies in his stomach. He smiled and whispered back, “Yours,” because it was true. He belonged to Kavinsky. But Kavinsky didn't belong to him. He never would, not as long as there was Ronan Lynch. Lynch was everything he’d never be— sharp features and rough edges, strong and independent, his own master.

Prokopenko had golden locks and pale, freckled skin and he was soft But at least he knew this softer side of Kavinsky, who’d keep coming back to him, even if he never stayed.

 

What Prokopenko didn’t know was that Kavinsky kept returning because he loved him more than he would ever admit. After all, Kavinsky had created him and stolen him out of his dreams, the most precious thing he’d ever taken from his dream place. He was a skilled thief, the best there was, and Prokopenko was the living proof.

Kavinsky loved him more than he’d like to allow himself to. Prokopenko was lovely, beautiful, all smiles and laugher. He had a warm heart and wore the emotions on the outside that Kavinsky didn’t even dare carry on the inside. Kavinsky loved breaking beautiful things, loved using and wrecking them. That’s why he kept running to Ronan Lynch.

Lynch was none of the above, not in Kavinsky’s eyes. Lynch’s mind was equally twisted but not as sick, although he had his flaws. He was a dreamer, too. Together, they crashed and burned, but the only person who lighted up Kavinsky on the inside was Andrej Prokopenko, the Ukrainian boy he stole from his sweetest dreams. Sometimes Kavinsky lay awake at night, next to Proko, and listened to his heartbeat, convincing himself that he was truly alive. He concentrated on his soft, deep breathing and wondered what a person stolen out of a dream dreamed about. Kavinsky asked him about this a lot. Prokopenko then told him he usually dreamed of good experiences, but from time to time he dreamed weird stuff like everyone else. Prokopenko had once asked Kavinsky in return what he dreamed about and Kavinsky said, “You. I dream about you. Well, and about drugs, you know. Nothing unusual.” Prokopenko had laughed and playfully hit his upper arm before he kissed him, long and gently. With Prokopenko things were always gentle and soft, but at the same time intense and unforgettable. Prokopenko was a dream and he made Kavinsky want to keep dreaming forever.

 

Ronan Lynch played with fire because he didn’t dare play with magic. The day he’d met Adam Parrish he knew he’d lost. Not that it was a game, it wasn’t, not with Adam. With Kavinsky it was, though, and he knew he was winning that one. He was a terrible player, a terrible winner and a terrible loser. Some souls were just not made for playing. But, here he was, lying on the hood of the white Mitsubishi, Kavinsky next to him and high on some drug, like always. Ronan looked at Kavinsky and he didn’t know if he hated him or felt sorry for him. They had more in common than he liked to admit: They came almost from the same place. They had no father, probably dead and certainly dead respectively, and largely useless mothers. They just had chosen different paths. Kavinsky was all Ronan could have been and Ronan was everything Kavinsky wanted to be. They both had reliable friends, friends they’d die for, but maybe Ronan just had picked better. Ronan knew this wasn’t true. Ronan had been lucky Gansey had chosen him, and with Gansey had come Adam and with Monmouth had come Noah and with Adam had come Blue. Ronan hadn’t picked any of them, but Gansey chose him and so he chose life over death. “It will always be against you,” he whispered, convinced Kavinsky wouldn’t hear him.

The boy next to him laughed, sounding almost humorous, but didn’t say anything. Ronan got up and left, driving back in the Pig he had brought from his dream. He chose Adam Parrish over Joseph Kavinsky. It was time to stop playing with fire and to start learning how to work with magic instead.

 

Things were ending, Prokopenko could tell. His heart ached and longed for Joseph Kavinsky, even though he was lying right next to him when he woke up. Kavinsky had spent the night out, probably with Lynch. He smelled of the earth and the grass of the fairground. Prokopenko loved that smell, so he snuggled closer, burying his nose in the crook of Kavinsky’s neck. His breath must have tickled Kavinsky because he shifted slightly, putting an arm around Prokopenko and pulling him closer. They didn’t cuddle often but when they did, Prokopenko wanted that moment to last for an eternity or two. Kavinsky kissed his forehead and Prokopenko felt something wet dripping down on his face. It took him a while to realise that Joseph Kavinsky was crying. There was no sound, and his chest was heaving only a little more than usual, but otherwise his breathing appeared normal. Tears were streaking down his face and it seemed that once it started, it couldn’t stop. Prokopenko held Kavinsky close, letting him bury his head in Prokopenko’s golden locks until he was ready to face him again.

When he was, Kavinsky didn’t bother wiping away the tear stains. Instead, he looked at Prokopenko with so much affection in his eyes that Prokopenko’s heart broke. Kavinsky leaned in and kissed him long and sweetly, their tongues touching. Kavinsky held Prokopenko’s face in both hands and Prokopenko had his hands on Kavinsky’s back, still holding him close. It was a confession and it was a goodbye. Prokopenko was not ready to let him go, not now, not ever.

“I love you Joey, I love you so much,” he whispered between kisses. He had nothing to lose. If this really was the end, then he wanted Kavinsky to know.

“I know,” Kavinsky answered, his voice soft and sweet, “I know, Andy, I know.” He planted butterfly kisses all over Prokopenko’s cheeks, his jawline, his neck, his collarbones, his shoulder, his chest, his stomach before he found his lips again. And then he whispered, barely audible, and Prokopenko wouldn’t have caught it if Kavinsky hadn’t said it so close to his ear, “And I love you, too.”

It ripped Prokopenko apart. He wished Kavinsky hadn’t said it. He knew Kavinsky loved him. He didn’t need him to say it aloud, but he had said it and it meant that today everything was really coming to an end. It was their last moment together, their last chance, and Kavinsky had used it to do the right thing. It was July 4th, and neither of them would survive the day.

“Mine,” Kavinsky said, his voice charming, but sad. He kissed Prokopenko over and over.

“Mine,” Prokopenko answered because Kavinsky now belonged to him, too.

 

With Joseph Kavinsky things were always rough and fast and extreme and Andrej Prokopenko didn’t mind it at all, except for that one night. On July 4th, he minded it a lot. But things came crashing down like they started, his whole world burned, and all he could think about was how much he loved that young man despite his all-consuming, demanding and destructive personality. He couldn’t have asked for more. Because Prokopenko had lived his dream even if it hadn’t always been the most pleasant one. When he saw the dragon racing towards Kavinsky and his heart stopped beating, he knew. He’d been a dream and the dream was dying with his dreamer.

**Author's Note:**

> I really love the headcanon of Prokopenko being Ukrainian and since his first name is never mentioned in the books and there are no sources for a possible forename online, I chose one.


End file.
